In the grand halls of Sapphire's royal archives, torches burned low as King Levi Daemon stood alone before a tapestry older than any living soul. Woven in threads of gold, crimson, and ash, it depicted the War of Eight Crowns—the bloody conflict that had shattered the old empire and birthed the kingdom he now ruled.
It had been two hundred years since that war, and its scars still shaped the world.
Sapphire had not always been the heart of the realm. Once, the continent had been ruled by a single empire, the Valari Dominion, a cruel and magnificent force that tamed dragons and conquered with fire and steel. But when the last dragon died, the dominion fell—its power broken, its provinces tearing each other apart for the throne.
Eight kings rose. Eight crowns clashed.
But only one kingdom had what the others did not: the gift of strategy, gold, and diplomacy.
Sapphire, rich in trade routes, nestled between rivers and mountains, had no dragons, no magic, and no might. But it had vision.
While others warred, King Ronan Daemon, Levi's great-grandfather, brokered peace with blood and ink. He married into three royal houses, bribed the others with coin and farmland, and crushed the rest with alliances.
When the dust settled, Sapphire stood unchallenged.
Its victory wasn't won by sword, but by mind.
And its symbol—the silver flame—became the emblem of unity, though no flame had burned in truth for centuries.
Now, that unity trembled.
—
Ironholde, ever resentful of Sapphire's rule, viewed peace as weakness. Lord Varran, a scarred titan of a man, had forged the strongest army in the realm. In private, he called the Daemons "crowned merchants," unworthy of kingship.
He had not forgotten the old insults.
Nor the old ambitions.
—
In Velmora, the scholars spoke in whispers.
Queen Selene Marros had uncovered texts hinting at the return of dragonkind. Her spies in Sapphire reported tremors near the ancient forest—and the possibility of a "marked man" tied to the royal line.
She knew Sapphire's dominance was built on political illusion. If dragons returned, true power would shift to whomever held the flame.
And she intended to be ready.
—
Zar-Khalan watched with fervent hope.
Empress Vireya stood upon her sun-drenched balcony, robed in red and gold. Her ancestors once rode dragons—blessed by fire and blood. She believed prophecy had come full circle, and the Flameborn would rise again.
If the egg had awakened, it was a sign. A test. And her priests began lighting sacred fires that had not burned in generations.
—
Back in Sapphire, the egg cracked again.
Marcus awoke from another vision—this time of thrones turned to ash and cities alight with dragonfire.
He rose in a sweat, hands shaking.
Outside, the first snow began to fall—strange for this time of year. And in the distance, far beyond the trees, a raven flew from the castle, black against the gray sky.
Carrying word to the other kingdoms:
The flame has returned.